Chapter Fifty-Nine: Red Shadow Emerges, Who Rules the Old Gang
Section One: Rustmouth Tavern, Whispers Like Knives
"It's not that you revealed your identity—it's that they're desperate to know who you are."
Rustmouth Street, night.
At the Red Gang's easternmost fringe outpost, a graystone flat called "Rustmouth Tavern" never asked a patron's origins, only how many drinks they could hold.
Maria donned a three-year-old port worker's uniform, a faded red scarf at her neck, stepping in, her boots trailing rust-stained mud.
Behind her, a lean team of three: Tarn, dressed as an out-of-province grain hauler, empty sack slung; Sinnas, in a liquor-stained apron, posing as a local drunk; Fesina, female, hid in the door's shadow, playing a rain-dodging girl.
This group moved nothing like soldiers—more like drifters seeking cheap booze for a breather.
—
Behind the bar, a slouched old man glanced up, then down, twisting a bottle cap: "Sit downstairs, don't ask prices."
Maria didn't reply, taking a corner table near the door, far from the hearth, pressing an old copper token on the wood.
The man didn't take it, sliding a jug toward her: "No charge tonight."
"You look like her," he murmured, words scattered by the wind, as if not meant for her.
Maria stayed silent.
He poured: "She came like this, quiet. Sat there, listened to others talk."
Maria's eyes flickered, but she didn't respond.
A voice cut in from the bar, weary as a rag wrung dry:
"Like? Like who? You're too hung up on ghosts."
The speaker, a man in his early thirties, one hand crippled, sleeve pinned with a Red Gang "Black Hook" splinter badge—early purge survivors, once tied to Fire suspects.
"She doesn't look like her," he turned, staring at Maria. "Looks like a Fire believer."
The air stilled half a beat.
Maria looked up, meeting his gaze.
Not anger, not denial.
She slowly drew a cracked metal cigarette filter from her waist, tapping it on the table like a seasoned drinker, pressing the split with her fingers.
She said softly:
"If you believed in Fire, would you talk like that?"
"If you truly believed in Fire… would you dare?"
The man faltered.
She didn't wait, glancing up: "Or do you think everyone who believes in Fire should act as you imagine?"
—
At the bar's other end, an old woman, overhearing, set down her bamboo chopsticks, murmuring:
"You're always trying to spot Fire."
"But when you see it, you don't dare believe."
"It's not what they do that scares you."
"It's that they say nothing, and you can't move."
—
Tarn's left ear twitched, ARGUS chip relaying scrambled text:
[Meme Chain Resonance Flux × Keywords: "Silent Fire" "Like Her" "Not You, Them"]
[Emotion Curve Updated: Observation → Doubt → Delayed Shift]
[Trust Slope Undecided × Environmental Hostility Untriggered × Controllable]
Maria smiled faintly, sipping her drink.
She knew the liquor didn't intoxicate.
But this talk was enough to spark Fire.
Tonight, they didn't come to fight.
They came to wait—for others to bare their blades.
—
At the tavern door, a少年 peeked, glancing at Maria, then the table.
He whispered to his companion:
"How she spoke… felt more like Fire than us shouting it daily."
His friend gritted: "Did we back the wrong ones?"
"Maybe Fire—isn't something you ask out."
Section Two: Night Street Probe, Blades Unsheathing Wound First
"Not provocation—they're desperate to see if you'll draw."
Rustmouth Street's back stretch, lamp shadows wavering, rain held, wind turning corners.
Maria's team split after the tavern, not leaving directly but following ARGUS cues to detour west, trailing heat to another spot—"Red Gang peripheral patrol strip."
A disused container transit belt, lit only by a swaying streetlamp.
Maria walked ahead, boots scraping faint rasps on scrap tin. Each step tracked the rhythm behind.
Tarn and Fesina trailed half a beat on either side, Sinnas melting into the shadow of an electrical box—a planned listening blind spot.
—
At the third alley turn, a figure blocked the path.
Not a patrol, not Red Gang regular.
He wore the gang's old field uniform—"purple-gray five-button," phased out two years ago.
A rusted chain dangled in his hand, shoulders low, head unraised.
He said flatly:
"Who sent you?"
Maria didn't speak.
Fesina stepped forward; the man raised the chain—not swinging, but dragging it.
Clank.
The chain scraped a sonic pulse—Tarn's ARGUS triggered:
[ Environmental Sound Interference × Identified: "Low-Frequency Intimidation Chain"]
[Projected Pre-Combat Probe Mechanism × Group Ambush Risk: Medium]
[Current Zone: Red Gang Non-Primary Patrol Strip × Peripheral Solo Mobilization Activated]
Maria inhaled lightly. This wasn't questioning—it was baiting a reaction.
—
A second figure emerged from the corner.
Not human—a dog.
Black fur, red eyes, tongue out, not panting, a cloth strip around its neck, stamped:
"No. 7 Residual Value Dog."
A Red Gang "temporary repulse" attack dog, trained to sniff fear.
Tarn slowly shed his pack, feigning strap adjustment.
The man sneered, chain twitching, the dog stepping forward, halting at Maria's feet.
Maria didn't move, didn't look.
The dog sniffed, tail tucking, not biting, turning—to Tarn.
The man's eyes shifted, chain snapping up.
—
Maria acted.
Swift, brutal, short.
She kicked over a tin oil drum, the clang drawing eyes, her left hand already in her coat sleeve, pulling a modified probe needle.
The rust needle flashed faintly, aimed at his elbow—not piercing, but stalling his hand.
In that pause, Tarn swung his pack at the dog's head, Fesina yanking wire fencing to bind it.
Sinnas appeared on a high platform, tossing a second sonic stun grenade.
Hiss—
Not an explosion, a silent pulse.
The man's eardrums buckled, the dog shrank to the alley's end, the chain hit the ground, limp.
Maria stepped forward, leaning to his ear, whispering:
"We're not the 'Fire propaganda crew' you think."
"Not people you can scare into naming."
Her tone icy: "You think Fire should act—that's you craving to know if you're Fire's foe."
"We're just here to see if you're worth Fire mentioning."
—
Sweat beaded on the man's brow, lips trembling.
Tarn calmly retrieved his pack, Sinnas withdrew from the platform, Fesina slipped a note into the man's collar.
[☰ Wind Over Mountain, Gradual: Advance without contention, touch and halt. Probing like Fire, retreat to smoke.]
Four words:
"You're Not Enough Fire."
—
Tail Hook:
In the alley's shadow, a third figure never emerged, watching Tarn's footprints as they left.
He tapped his earpiece: "Who we stopped weren't stray outsiders."
"She saw my dog, fearless."
"And someone, without a word, nearly made me lose control."
The earpiece replied:
"Track their path."
"No moves tonight."
"Wait—for their next visit."
Section Three: Rumors Stir, Faith Unformed Breeds Fog
"You think they're waiting for your identity, but they're waiting for someone else to judge first."
Rustmouth Street north, pre-dawn, fog thick.
A message spread silently among the Red Gang's "relay mouth" team:
"Last night at the tavern, someone said: 'You think others believe in Fire because your imagination's poor.'"
Not a command, not a snitch, but a spark.
Mid-tier Red Gang member Wei Ran stared at the message's trace.
She was the only one holding three signal relays: messaging, dispatch, zone response.
She scrawled three points on her board:
[Sentence Style]: Unlike Fire propaganda (no rallying)
[Behavior]: No action, no self-proof, no chants
[Crowd Feedback]: No reports, but seven privately asked "Who said it?"
She bit her pen cap:
"Not Fire, but 'Fire-like.'"
—
Meanwhile, Jason sat in an empty tram, watching a broken signal light flicker.
Zhao Mingxuan scrolled through ARGUS's last night's data spikes.
"You let them spark a misjudgment on purpose?"
"I didn't let them do anything," Jason said evenly. "They're too eager for a 'true-false test.'"
"They haven't caught anyone in so long, they've stopped judging themselves."
—
Fesina sat at a cramped tea stall, flipping a fake newspaper, her cup steaming.
Two Red Gang "line-askers" nearby whispered about last night.
"Who was that woman?"
"Don't know, but she spoke like she knew Fire."
"You think she's Fire?"
"…I think she seemed more Fire than us."
"But if we're wrong? What if she's Empire?"
"If we strike first, don't we admit she's who we fear?"
They fell silent, stirring tea in unison, pausing.
—
ARGUS's subsurface band flashed three feedback sets:
[Crowd Emotion Model Updated × Autonomous Identification Mechanism Untriggered]
[Trend Shift: Questioning → Silence × Avoiding First Speech × Watching Others' Reactions]
[System Assessment: In "Crowd Delayed Judgment Phase"]
Zhao Mingxuan looked up: "The crowd… isn't not judging—they're waiting for others to speak first."
Jason nodded slowly: "That's what we want."
"When they're all watching, no one dares say 'She's not Fire.'"
—
Red Gang command layer.
Wei Ran received East District's "internal control report":
"Yesterday's behavior not rule-breaking, no hostility confirmed."
"But most patrols now actively avoid that zone."
She squinted: "Even our own won't go near?"
She realized—not enemy traps, but her patrollers fearing: "What if I judge wrong?"
Fearing:
"If I rashly say she's not Fire, and she is?"
That fear drove retreat.
And that woman said nothing.
—
Rustmouth Street, in fog.
Someone repainted last night's wall slogan, erasing "Fire," adding:
"You say she's not—then why dare approach her?"
Section Four: First to Strike Falls Behind
"Not fear of you striking—fear of you striking too fast, losing hearts yet to turn."
Red Gang west dispatch post, dawn.
Wei Ran tossed last night's patrol dropout report on the table, facing the gang's field leader, "Qing the Butcher."
A sharp, terse hardman.
"Say it again," Wei Ran's tone steady. "Why'd you send men without my orders?"
Qing didn't answer, sitting, tossing his wrist wrap on the table: "Because that woman's not ours."
"How'd you decide?"
"Gut."
"Gut says she's an enemy?"
"No, gut says she made several of ours—want to freeze."
—
Wei Ran frowned, circling nodes on the dispatch board: "That zone was set for the 'scrap dump belt' yesterday."
"Your men went in, no reports, scattered in five minutes."
Qing scoffed: "Scared of misjudging, stepping wrong, choosing wrong."
"…The gang's hearts are mush."
He tied his wrap, muttering: "But not mine."
"If that woman hadn't moved just once last night, you'd be collecting her body this morning."
—
Meanwhile, Fesina leaned against a warehouse wall, smoothing her coat, electric burn marks lingering on her palm.
She whispered to Tarn: "Who was that guy?"
Tarn flipped his terminal: "South District accent, likely Qing's line."
"Trouble—too straightforward, more dangerous than actors."
Fesina nodded: "Half a step faster, my probe wouldn't have grazed—it'd have snapped his wrist."
—
ARGUS flashed:
[Target: Qing the Butcher × Combat Intent: 72% (High) × Low Cognitive Sensitivity]
[Tendency: Action Over Judgment × Trusts Reaction, Not Memes]
[Projection: Prone to Decision Imbalance Under "Crowd Silent Observation"]
Zhao Mingxuan tagged: "This guy… shouldn't be sparked directly."
Jason: "So we wait—for him to start the show."
—
That evening, Qing rallied a six-man team, aiming to lock Rustmouth Street's tail for a "forced anomaly sweep."
Stepping into the street, he found—
The "anomalous crowd" lined up at a broken water truck, fetching water.
On the truck sat last night's woman.
Not preaching Fire, not rallying, not handing flyers.
Just sitting, passing cups, swapping water.
No one spoke, but all—lined up neatly.
Qing froze.
A soldier behind whispered: "Is it… not 'she's Fire,' but 'if we move now, we're Fire's enemy'?"
Qing clenched his jaw, unmoving.
—
An old woman passed the truck, glancing at him, saying nothing.
Her eyes seemed to ask:
"Dare you?"
"If you believe you're not Fire's foe—dare you move now?"
—
Qing stepped back.
—
Tail Hook:
ARGUS prompted:
[Target: Qing the Butcher × Critical Decision Logged: Abandoned First Strike]
[System Projection: Target Entered "Self-Judgment Freeze" × Prone to Faith Reversal Explosion]
[Suggestion: Maintain Ambiguous Signals, Apply Pressure, Avoid Direct Talk]
Jason said softly:
"Who strikes first falls behind."
"We do nothing—just let them think the crowd's no longer theirs."
Section Five: Array Unmoved, Street Renamed
"Not fighting to prove who we are, but to show who stays."
Rustmouth Street north, behind the dispatch sign, Red Gang deputy hall master Wei Ran stood before a hand-drawn map.
"What's this?" She jabbed at zone markers. "Rust One to Three were our patrol points yesterday—today, they're 'Water Line Aid Group'?"
The messenger stammered: "The… vendors changed it themselves."
"Said it's 'clear who's in charge,' but our men didn't stop them…"
"They said it's just for fun… not against us."
Wei Ran stared coldly at the words:
"For fun?"
"Who's named on the street rules it."
—
Meanwhile, Jason stood on a scrapped transport truck in Rustmouth's back stretch, fifty-plus local laborers behind him, bound by "short-term obedience pacts."
He said little, just:
"You don't need to trust who I am."
"But from this street on—whoever dares charge your water, tolls, or haul cuts, ask me first where their orders come from."
—
By the command board, Zhao Mingxuan activated "Rustmouth Pilot Point" on ARGUS:
[Identity Protocol × Anti-Interference Tag × Low-Intensity Behavior Control × Crowd Mapping Registered]
All in "Civil Order Trial Point" auto-gain ARGUS basic record exemption, entering protagonist team's autonomous governance node system.
Fesina, at the street corner, bandaged the last old woman, whispering:
"Tell them, no one takes water money here tomorrow morning."
"If someone tries, have her shout—'This place is already managed.'"
"If they still act, I'll come."
—
At the same time, Red Gang mid-tier Qing the Butcher got a report:
"Rustmouth Street's got new signs."
"Tagged on a wreck, calling it a temp order point."
"Locals aren't fighting, but sending food, clearing paths, setting watch shifts."
Qing, speechless, slammed his hand: "That street—are we still there?"
The messenger rasped: "Since this morning, 'Red Gang' hasn't been mentioned."
—
Crowd change wasn't awakening—it was who dared work and hold ground:
A youth scrawled on Rust Three:
"This street didn't lose them—they left, and we stayed with new hands."
—
ARGUS prompted:
[Rustmouth Street Zone Map Updated]
[Name Shift: Red Gang × Entity Invalid × Order Point Generated × Beacon Unlit]
[Current State: Occupying × Crowd Responding × Governance Structure Unignited]
Jason said softly:
"Faith doesn't matter."
"Names don't matter."
"Who this street listens to today—that matters."